


Cheap Night

by autoschediastic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 22:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve thinks his night might be better off spent getting decked behind the diner again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheap Night

Tuesday's cheap night at the Grand. Steve's in his best tie, fresh-pressed trousers, and the close night air is making him wish he'd taken Bucky up on the offer of a little pomade to spiff up for the evening. Bucky’s already halfway across the street--his hair a perfect charming wave--when Steve steps off the curb, hand raised for the umpteenth time to push chunk of hair out of his face. That plus a crack in the asphalt means a fresh black scuff on his knee and a bloodied palm. One's easy enough to hide with the scrap of a handkerchief in his pocket, the other he's stuck hoping nobody notices.

By the time he trots up to the box office with a wheezy, “Sorry,” Bucky's already got a dame in a creamy white and blue dress on his arm, and another in deep rose standing by.

“And this here is Steve,” Bucky pronounces with flourish and a wide grin. “Steve, the lovely Annie and her friend June.”

“Hello,” says Steve, trying out a smile and a wave. It works about as well as ever, with his face turning the colour of June's dress when she arches a slim brow at Bucky's girl and says, “Cute, huh. Cute as my kid brother.”

“My treat tonight,” says Annie. The look she aims at Bucky says plain as day she's playing nice like he asked. “You give that gentleman a chance.”

Steve draws himself up taller and offers his arm. “It's nice to meet you.”

“I'm sure it is,” June says, and wryly tucks only the very tips of her fingers into the crook of Steve's elbow. “Let’s hope the picture’s good.”

“Top marks,” Steve says, trying not to fidget as Annie shells out the whole dollar it takes to get the four of them through the door. “From the critics at the Times, I mean. I haven't seen it.” He clears his throat. “I hope it's good too.”

June shoots him a sideways glance. Bucky holds open the door. Annie smiles some more.

Steve thinks his night might be better off spent getting decked behind the diner again.

*

They settle into their seats with Annie closest to the aisle, Bucky beside her, then Steve and the reluctant June. While Bucky leans close to whisper something that gets Annie giggling, Steve tries unobtrusively blotting his sweaty hands. The right one stings where sweat's gotten into raw skin, but at least it's stopped bleeding.

Bucky catches his wrist as he's tucking away the soiled handkerchief. The dim light doesn't do the scratches on his palm any favours. “You okay?”

“Coulda been worse,” Steve says. “Coulda been my face.”

Bucky's thumb grazes the very edge of his palm where the scrapes taper off. “Maybe somebody'll kiss it better.”

Steve's laugh trails off to an awkward snort when June leans across his lap, and he stammers, “It's, uh, it's really not that--oh.” Cigarette plucked from Annie's outstretched hand, June settles back into her seat. She lights up with one of those fancy Zippos, putting the flame out with an even fancier flick of her wrist and a metallic snap like she's a dame in the movie instead of the audience. Over a thin stream of smoke, she lifts that eyebrow again.

“Nice lighter,” Steve says.

She crosses her legs and ashes into the tiny tray set in her seat's arm, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turns to the picture flickering to life on the screen. “I know.”

Biting back a sigh, Steve follows her lead. He doesn't have the first clue how Bucky managed to land a double with girls as flush as these two, but he's pretty damn sure June's not going to want to go dancing after the show. Since he’s got exactly enough cash in his pocket for two drinks and a half, it's probably for the best.

“Don't worry,” Bucky says, giving his knee a pat. “She'll warm up to you.”

*

The movie's a mess.

With the way Bucky and Annie are curled close together in the dark, chances are good neither of them notice. June’s puffed her way through three smokes already, eyes riveted to the screen. Steve’s no dummy but he can’t follow the story to save a life--the actors are running here and there for no good reason, and flinging out accusations like candies at a parade. He slumps sideways in his seat, face in hand. Might as well take another stab at figuring out why the doctor's got the lawyer's niece’s husband trussed up in the detective’s office. The detective isn't even involved.

He's almost--maybe--got it by the time the action moves to the husband's secret bachelor apartment, which turns out isn't the husband's at all. Right as the doctor comes bursting through the door yelling at the top of his lungs, Bucky's hand comes down on Steve's leg again and he jumps a mile out of his skin. June shoots him a questioning glance.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers, only to be shushed by a guy three seats over.

Bucky grins and leaves his hand where it is as Steve rolls his eyes and sits up a little straighter. He missed the niece's entrance onto the scene, and catching up with the impassioned speech she's giving is a lost cause. So is figuring out why she's suddenly brandishing a letter opener like a switchblade. She sure seemed like a nice girl back in the detective’s office, head high and voice soft while determinedly listing out all the reasons why she--

The loud scuff of his shoe on the carpet earns him another hiss and a withering stare from the same fella as before. He mouths another apology, just barely managing to keep his leg from twitching again. Borrowing that guy’s glare, he gives aiming it Bucky's way a shot, but Bucky's staring intently at the screen, his arm slung easily around Annie's shoulders and a quirk of a smile on his lips.

Bucky's fingertips, curled so very close to the inseam of Steve's trousers, creep another inch higher.

A quick glance around says no one's paying them a lick of attention. He tugs as subtly as he can on the hem of his jacket, but even a hand-me-down two sizes too big isn't enough to cover where Bucky's arm is slung over the chair. Shifting his rear end so he's flush against the opposite side of the seat doesn't do a damn thing to shorten Bucky's reach. Heat crawls up the back of his neck at a steely, warning puff of smoke from June, like she thinks he’s trying to get fresh. 

Eyes bright in the flickering light, gaze still square on the screen like the shit he is, Bucky drags blunt nails right over the seam of Steve's crotch. With no further left to go back in his seat, he slumps right down, legs sprawled wide for a split-second before swinging an ankle up onto the opposite knee. The shadows might help conceal Bucky's lazy stroking, but they sure don’t help the quiver in Steve's belly. He chews on the side of his lip and risks another longer look at Bucky. Annie's still tucked up as close to his side as she can get, close enough that if she looked, no way could she miss what Bucky's up to. Like when the waves drag the sand right out from underneath his feet at the beach, Steve’s gut gives a hard swooping lurch.

When the stroke of Bucky's fingertips goes from lazy to searching, Steve shifts his attention determinedly to the screen. As loose as his trousers are, they're not loose enough for this. He manages to get his foot to stop jiggling for a second or two before Bucky's found the exact curve of his trapped and thickened cock, and then he's stuck dragging in slow, tense breaths, the picture going steadily out of focus, as Bucky traces stroke after stroke along its length. A little extra pressure near the head makes the muscles in his whole leg from ass to thigh jump. Bucky lingers, circling and pressing and teasing like he's aiming to get Steve worked up enough to leak through two layers of thick cotton.

He could do it, too. For a fella with such a thing for fooling around in public, he's got the devil's patience. Sweat starts to prickle at Steve's hairline, the small of his back. There's no way to tell how long before the credits roll and the house lights come up. Bucky could be at this for another fifteen, twenty minutes. Thirty.

Steve nearly chokes at the sudden heat and pressure of Bucky palming him fully. “Hey Steve,” he whispers, leaning close enough Steve can smell the mix of the day's sunlight and shaving cream left lingering on his skin, “what d'you say we go get these lovely ladies a drink?”

“Now?”

A little squeeze makes Steve's leg jump and Bucky's grin widen. “Now.”

The next second, Bucky's up out of his seat. Steve quickly clambers to his feet and shuffles out of the aisle, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Bucky waits by the door, holding it open a crack for Steve to slide through. Squinting in the brighter lights of the lobby, he heads straight for the concession counter.

“Not so fast,” Bucky says, taking two big steps to catch up and slinging an arm around his shoulders. His voice drops low, knowing. “You're in that much a hurry to get back, huh.”

“Why do you always have to do that sort of thing in public?” Steve shakes his head, mostly at Bucky but no small bit at himself. “You’re gonna get us thrown out.”

“Hey, hey.” Bucky swings around to plant himself square in Steve's path. “Why do you let me?”

Steve looks right up into Bucky's face. “'Cause you're my best friend, Buck.”

Bucky's challenging grin softens briefly to a smile. “Just can't help yourself,” he says, sly. His arm settles tight around Steve's shoulders again. “C'mon.”

Bucky steers them straight past the concession counter and the bored usher nose-first in a drugstore dime novel. “Where're we going?” barely makes it out of Steve's mouth before Bucky's tugging open a door flush to and barely distinguishable from the wall. Without a backward glance, Bucky hauls him bodily inside.

The broom closet smells like bleach and wood polish. “Better get the door,” Bucky says, shrugging out of his jacket and hooking it on a mop handle.

Steve says, “Bucky,” more out of reflex than genuine protest. He’s already sizing up the keyhole, then the shadows to the left and right of the door. There’s a stool tucked into the corner, a rusty tin on top of it along with a few scattered scraps of foil. The foil goes in the tin, the tin on the floor, and the stool jammed up snug under the handle. How Bucky knew about this spot, and that whoever sneaks off for a smoke break here wouldn’t be taking one right now, are questions along the exact same lines as how he wrangled their dates for the night: ones Steve's not even gonna try asking. Especially not when Bucky's suspenders are swinging loose around his hips and weighing down the open placket of his fly.

“C'mere,” says Bucky, palming himself through his shorts. “Give a guy a kiss before you stick it in him.”

Steve says, “Bucky,” again, this time with a whole different meaning and lot more feeling. Stumbling across the three and a half feet between them, he manages to knock over a broomstick and upset a stack of dusting cloths, but the former helpfully falls onto the latter. An anticipatory jolt from the racket that _could've_ made goes through him anyway, turning his grip on the back of Bucky's neck to haul him down for that kiss a little rougher than he intends. The noise Bucky lets out is about as far from a complaint as he can get, lips already parted for the push of Steve's tongue. The day Steve finally gets a chance to kiss a girl is the day she's probably gonna slap him for it--dames want the gentleman Bucky's too impatient to let him be.

Not that a half-shadowed broom closet calls for much in the way of gentlemanly behaviour.

“You're such a punk,” Steve says, words smeared between kisses to Bucky's smooth throat--smooth only when Bucky's got someone impress; Steve's more used to a prickle against his lips, a slight rasp when their cheeks brush. Balance precarious stretched up on his toes, he gropes along Bucky's arm to find where he's still stroking himself slowly, and touches bare hot skin instead of cotton. The trip across the lobby did away with most of the job done on him in the theatre, but Bucky pushing thick and hard into his grip brings it all rushing back. This isn't even the worst place Steve's ended up on his knees.

“Hey, no,” Bucky says, catching him under the arms to keep him on his feet. “You think I was just foolin'?”

“Foolin'?” Steve echoes. He's heard more than once that too much time spent around Bucky turns him dumb. It's the hardest thing ever to not laugh in their faces. If they only _knew_. 

“Yeah.” Bucky's got that same crooked grin he had inviting Steve out tonight, that same slant to it that says he knows more than he's letting on. He shuffles back a step, clothes caught awkwardly around his thighs. Something on the wooden shelves rattles when he turns to prop an arm against the frame, then falls over with a tinny clunk as he frees up his legs, trousers pooling around his ankles and shirt hiked up high. “C'mon, Stevie. Quick like that time out back the Hall.”

“That wasn't my fault.” Steve steps in close, palms the taut curve of Bucky's ass. His hand looks too thin and pale against Bucky's warm skin, but Bucky makes another one of those noises, rough and anticipatory as he bends lower, feet skidding wide as they can. “You wouldn't quit.”

“Guess you're rubbing off on me,” Bucky says, his eyes devilishly bright.

Steve barks a too-loud laugh, choking it back to gurgle of a chuckle as his fly finally gives way to his shaky tugging. “Guess so.” The touch of his own hand isn't much but his stomach twists tight anyway. He spits when he's sure Bucky's paying attention, Bucky's sharp indrawn breath winding his insides tighter as much as the wet glide of his hand. He does his best to muffle the ragged groan deep in his chest when he settles flush against Bucky, his cock pressed snug along the crack of Bucky's ass, but some of it gets away from him.

Bucky says, “Yeah,” deep and low like the curve of his spine as he rocks into it. For two guys so different, they move together easily, and easier still when Steve bends close, letting Bucky take more of his weight than not as his hips work. Sometimes he wonders if it's only the queers that do it like this, a little rough and a lot shameless with their bodies pressed so tightly together there's barely room for sweat to gather on skin.

Bucky's fingers, rough and strong from working on the docks, push and fumble between them for Steve's cockhead, press hard against it as he bends his knees and tries to push his ass higher at the same time. “Fuck, Steve, what're you doing? Put it in already.”

Steve slows and pulls away with a groan. “Almost don't want to,” he says, ignoring Bucky's groping fingers and the hiss that sounds a lot like please. But he's quick to wet his fingers, and quicker still to say, “I said almost, Buck.” Bucky doesn't mind him looking and he likes to do it, but the bare bulb doesn't offer much in the way of light to see by so it isn't until his thumb presses to Bucky's asshole that he realizes it's not sweat and spit in the crack but the sticky-slick smear of Vaseline.

“You,” Steve starts, but his voice cuts out as his thumb sinks easily into Bucky's body, the sudden clench of hot slippery flesh like a sucker punch in an alleyway. All this time, from showing up on his doorstep to teasing him in the theatre to dragging him in here, Bucky's been slicked and ready and _planning_ this.

Drawing his thumb free, Steve slides two fingers deep instead. Bucky grunts and arches into it, and when Steve bends close and asks, “You really mean to leave those ladies alone in there while you get fucked in a broom closet?” 

“Didn't figure it'd take you so long.” Bucky turns slightly, gaze dropping low to linger on Steve's bared cock before the side of his mouth quirks and his eyes lift. “Didn't figure she'd have a friend so stuck up.”

Steve's mouth falls into a mirror of Bucky's. Most times he's glad Bucky doesn't share the rest of the world's opinion about a sickly twig of a kid too stubborn to break. Other times he wishes Bucky weren't so damn surprised nobody sees what he does. Maybe then it wouldn't feel so much like letting Bucky down.

“Don't you,” Bucky warns, twisting sharply around to grab onto the lapel of Steve's jacket. “Only thing got me through that last shift was thinkin' 'bout tonight, so don't you.”

Steve huffs, “Sorry,” though he knows he says it too much. Of all the things Bucky keeps looking for in him, sorries aren't it. When he's got a hand on his cock poised to push into Bucky’s body is no time to go offering them up anyway.

There's a few seconds delay where a couple tugs on his cock reverses the damage his thoughts dealt, and Bucky gets impatient, shifting his weight and giving his own cock a few long pulls. Watching the soft shadowed shift of his balls, and the memory of the first time he had the guts to put his hands on Bucky like this, gets him all the way there. Before he fully realises the urge, he's rubbing his cockhead against Bucky's sac and Bucky groans louder than he should dare. If they get caught, best case scenario they'll get banned from the theater, and then there'll be no relief but the rooftops from the summer's heat. It'll be his own damn fault too, for not dragging Bucky straight back out the second he got dragged in.

But then a quarter's a quarter no matter whose pocket it comes out of, and it takes power to run the lights and the projectors and those big ceiling fans he's starting to miss inside this stuffy closet. Still no reason to risk leaving the girls high and dry with nobody to walk them home.

“Keep it down,” Steve tries, knowing he's maybe asking for too much. There’s not much air left in his lungs, and the first slow push in still steals the last wheezy scrap of it. He pauses too long for Bucky’s liking, though Bucky does his best to hide it. When he’s got the breath to go again, easy and slow the whole way like they've got the time for it, he bottoms out. With Bucky tight and slick and pushing against him already, it takes everything he’s got to keep breathing.

Bucky groans, “All damn day,” hanging onto the rickety shelves like they're the only thing keeping him on his feet. Seeing him like this, the way he shivers as Steve draws back and fucks in again, twists Steve up inside like nothing else. Those noises that aren't pain, the shakes that make Steve worry if he'll have the strength to hold them up, how Bucky clutches at Steve's hand on his hip to leave bruises on them both, they're all the reasons why he's never smart like he should be.

Bucky pushes too hard, cursing under his breath as they fall out of sync. “Easy, I got it,” Steve says, brushing Bucky's hand aside to line up again. Bucky makes an aborted grab for the shelf as Steve pushes in, his hand snapping back to grab at his own ass, spreading it wide for Steve to watch.

That Bucky's so goddamn shameless is no surprise--he sauntered down the street and kissed that girl of his hello with his ass greased and ready, probably even checked out the theatre on some other date to find this closet. Neither anymore is Steve's reaction to it, the heat that spreads out from his belly and into his chest, stains his neck and face red as he fucks as long and hard as he can. It doesn't take much for his legs to start shaking worse than Bucky's, or for the occasional wheeze to turn into a steady dry rasp.

Twisting around to show Steve a shaky grin, Bucky says, “You said it had to be quick.”

“So I did,” Steve manages, and takes hold of Bucky's wrist to push his hand toward his cock. Bucky groans like he'd been waiting for it, jerking off as fast as if they've been at this for hours instead of minutes. Shaking worse than Bucky, Steve manages a couple more unsteady thrusts before he doubles over and comes, gulping down air that reeks of bleach and sweat. When Bucky goes off a full minute later and he's still trying to catch his breath, all he can do is hope that shelf is a hell of a lot sturdier than it looks.

Bucky laughs a bit, says, “Even better than I thought it'd be,” and laughs a little louder as he reaches out to straighten up a couple of listing boxes. “Think I gotta buy you a drink for that one.”

With no doubt he could use one, Steve works on getting his body to cooperate first on separating them, which almost takes his knees out from under him twice over, and then on scooping up one of those towels he knocked over earlier. He cleans them both up as best he can while Bucky stretches like a lazy cat in the sun. Folding the soiled paper sani-towel up as small as he can, he gives up on finding a place to put it that he won't be ashamed when someone has to clean it up and jams it into his back pocket. There's at least three trash cans he saw in the concessions stands on the way in. One of those while Bucky's getting sodas for the girls will do.

Snapping his suspenders back into place, Bucky says, “Let's go get that drink.” He shuffles past Steve to the door with a deliberately cheesy eyebrow waggle. Opening it a sliver, he peers out into the dim hallway. “Night like tonight, Mahoney's gonna have top shelf on a twofer.”

Steve quits trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his tie. “Mahoney's.”

Bucky shrugs. They both know damn well that’s no place he’d take a lady. 

“What happened to 'she'll warm up to you'?”

“Aw, c'mon, Stevie. Dame named June starts out about as warm as she's ever gonna get.” He runs a hand through his messy hair, stands falling into place like soldiers into line. “More interested in that stupid movie,” he mutters, checking the hallway again.

Steve props a fist on his hip. “I don't care what she thinks of me,” he says, a half-truth Bucky lets slide. “The least we're gonna do is walk 'em home tonight, and we're gonna get some sodas too 'cause you said you would.”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky sighs, “I'll get 'em. You go keep the girls company.”

Though Steve would put a full week's wages down on his company being the last either of them would want to keep, he nods and ducks out into the hall. He strides to the theatre like he's got a reason to be there, squinting into the dark as he makes his way down the rows. Annie does a decent job at covering up her disappointment that it's only him, while June pays about as much attention to his coming back as she did his going. Hard to feel too bad that at least one of them is getting Annie’s money’s worth. 

Bucky's return perks Annie near straight out of her seat. Steve hands June her soda and whispers, “You're welcome,” even though her thank you is aimed over his head. Bucky's too busy draping his arm around Annie and pulling her close to notice, but June smiles at him anyway. Steve can't really blame her. Bucky looks good with his hair a little messy, his body loose and relaxed and the light catching the lingering heat in his skin.

The movie's still terrible, June's still more interested in it than him, and still there’s the guilt that he isn’t paying either of them any mind. Not with Bucky sitting right there with a fresh-fucked ass and an arm around his girl, and a grin that says he knows exactly where Steve’s attention is.


End file.
